


The One Where I Crashed

by suffocatingrelief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Autistic Castiel, Doctor Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Patient Dean, Mental Health Patient Castiel (Supernatural), Mental Instability, Therapy, Veteran Dean, crazy cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-04-23 02:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14322177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suffocatingrelief/pseuds/suffocatingrelief
Summary: For the longest time, there was just me. No other half, no 'bigger picture' view. I simply existed as I was. I had my two eyes, two ears, etc. I was complete. Until, one day, I wasn't.A story of a special kind of love in the most unexpected place.





	1. Hello, Dean.

     Everything in life comes in pairs. Birds have two wings. Swans swim in pairs. The entire human body is based on the concept of pairs. Two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, etc. I'm sure you get the picture by now. If not, let me abstract it for you. There must be a balance in the world. If one thing exists, its match must also exist. Kind of like a soulmate for each and every thing in creation.

  
     For the longest time, there was just me. No other half, no 'bigger picture' view. I simply existed as I was. I had my two eyes, two ears, etc. I was complete. Until, one day, I wasn't. It wasn't an overnight revelation. It started with a numb feeling. Like white noise. The television was on but no program was playing. Someone had crossed all the wires. It took me a while to notice it and when I finally did, I didn't pay it too much mind. I mean, everyone goes through bad times, right? Except it got to the point where it wasn't an isolated occurrence. It became anger. Before, anger wasn't an emotion I knew particularly well. Sure, things rubbed me the wrong way but it never came close to the pure, raw rage that I could feel bubbling under my skin.

  
     The worst came when the anger faded and that was left was nothing. Complete disassociation. Sort of like when you're in the pool and you lay on your back in the water, letting the rippling water move you rather than kicking your legs to tread water. I was just floating, almost like I couldn't even muster up the energy to paddle. The worst part of it all? I could feel myself about to knock into the side of the pool but I couldn't make any move to stop myself.

  
     I just let myself crash.  
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     "Castiel?" A voice pulled me from my thoughts and I found myself back in that horribly decorated office. It was full of dingy yellow and tacky floral prints. I hated being in there, having to look at that interior design disaster. 'One-on-one counseling' they called it. Mandatory during hospitalization. They say that if you have an outlet for your feelings, you're probably less prone to full-scale meltdowns in your local grocery store. Silliness, really. But, nonetheless, mandatory.

  
     At least the doctor, a psychiatrist named Samuel Robert Winchester, is tolerable. We weren't supposed to know their full names but I 'accidentally' looked at his documents after I 'accidentally' knocked them off of his desk and onto the floor. He wore way more plaid than any psychiatrist I had ever known but he had a warm smile and he kept his hair pulled up into a bun on the top of his head. He has two dogs and one older brother. I never caught his name. I'm the only one in my ward that sees him. He told me he's a specialist for people like me so they stuck me with him, hoping my recovery would be more successful.

  
     "Castiel?" Oh, right. Still in the ugly office. "Castiel, you have to participate in these sessions in order for them to count towards your recovery program. If you don't-"

  
     "I'll be here for even longer. I remember. I'm not a child, Dr. Winchester." I rolled my eyes and kicked my feet against the bottom of the couch, something I found myself doing often.

  
     "I don't think you're a child. I do think you aren't really grasping the seriousness of the situation. 'Longer' can very quickly turn to 'indefinitely' if you can't prove you can be released." He started drumming his fingertips on the spine of his notebook. His awfully hideous yellow notebook. During my first session, I informed him that the yellow in his office disgusted me and when I came back the next day, he was sitting in his too-small chair holding the aforementioned abomination of a notebook with a big, dumb grin on his face. He calls it 'learning that I can't control every situation', I call it sadism.

  
     "I fully understand the gravity of the situation." I began to pick at the skin on the back of my hand but Dr. Winchester gave me the look I had begun to associate with 'If you keep picking, you have to wear the ugly winter gloves.' Instead, I settled for worrying my bottom lip. "I'm trying!" I shouted a little too loud before sinking back into the couch.

     "Sorry for yelling."

  
     "It's alright, Castiel. You caught yourself and apologized. That's progress." He gave me one of his warm smiles and I relaxed a fraction. "Have you completed any of the items on your goal sheet?"

  
     "Yes." I pulled the folded sheet from my pocket, sparing just a moment to notice the doctor's look of surprise. In the three weeks I had been hospitalized, I hadn't made any progress on the dumb list.

  
     "W-what did you do?" Dr. Winchester cleared his throat to try to cover the sound of disbelief in his voice but I still allowed myself to preen in the approval.

  
     "I used my breathing techniques this afternoon." The doctor raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward me.

  
     "Would you like to elaborate?"

  
     "On what?" I tilted my head and squinted my eyes. I had recently learned that that was a facial expression used to convey confusion so I had begun using it. A lot.

  
     "On why you needed to use the breathing techniques."

  
     "Right. Well, I was in the day room with my Sorry board-"

  
     "The Sorry board."

  
     "Semantics. Anyhow, I was sitting at the table playing and then th-this man just sits in the seat in front of me and starts moving the pieces! He picks up cards and says 'Sorry' in his dumb voice and tells me that I  have to go back to Home." I noticed an emotion I didn't recognize flash across Dr. Winchester's face before it returned to his normal look.

  
     "Well, how did the person you were playing with react?" He picked up his pen and scratched it in his ugly notebook.

  
     "I wasn't playing with anyone," I said incredulously. "It's my Sorry board and I was playing with it. I thought we already established that."

  
     "No, Castiel. We established that you were playing with the Sorry board that belongs to the day room. Additionally, Sorry is typically played by more than one person at a time. It's how the game works. I'm sure the man just thought you might appreciate being able to play the game correctly. However, I am very pleased to hear that you used your breathing techniques and that they worked." The doctor extended one of his abnormally long legs and crossed it over his other one.

  
     "How do you know it worked?" At that point, I was just being childish, a common response in my life to being upset by something I couldn't change.

  
     "Because you're in here and not in the Fish Bowl." My whole body shivered at the thought of that. The Fish Bowl was horrible. It's this little room tucked away at the end of a narrow hallway on the far end of the ward. It's like solitary confinement in prison but they painted sea life on the inside so it doesn't seem as harsh. They put me in there when I start to get too overwhelmed. It's like a sensory deprivation tank without the water. The more I thought about it, the sicker I got to my stomach.

  
     "It's been an hour, Dr. Winchester. My session only lasts an hour." I stood up from my spot on the lumpy, yellow couch and readjusted my white scrubs. The doctor chuckled to himself. He always does when I end the session.

  
     "You're absolutely correct, Castiel. I'll see you tomorrow." The orderly that was standing outside, eavesdropping no doubt, came in and lead me back to my ward and dropped me off in the day room. Instinctively, I sat down at the table with the red chairs and opened the Sorry box that was sitting on it. It was the same routine every day. I pulled out the game board and the pieces, set them all up, and drew my first card. I only ever played the red. The rest of the pieces sat there. They didn't need to move. The red pieces were the soldiers. They took the orders. I had immersed myself in my game until another body plopped down in the chair across from me, the whole table shaking from the sudden movement.

  
     "Heya, Cas."

  
     "Hello, Dean."


	2. Dazed and Confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter but I'm trying to explore the writing style and character choices for this kind of story. Please leave kudos and comments! Suggestions are welcomed and encouraged!

     Dean always plays the green pieces. They match his eyes. I don't know if that's why he plays with those pieces but that's what I have come to associate them with. Every time I open the (my) Sorry board, I see the green pieces and I smile, even if for only a moment. But then I come back to myself and draw my first card, moving my first red piece. Dean doesn't always play with me. Today I'm playing by myself because Dean and the other veterans have group therapy with Dr. Singer in the cafeteria. They get snacks. I never get snacks in group.

  
     "Castiel, could I see you in my office for a moment?" Damn. I turn around and was disappointed but not surprised. Dr. Naomi Milton, the director of this fine establishment and my own living nightmare. She's an uptight middle aged woman with dark red hair that's always in such a plain, boring bun at the back of her head. She also seems to own only one pantsuit that she wears every day.

  
     "Yes, Dr. Milton?" Once we got into her office, I took a seat in the chair furthest from her. She walked behind her massive oak desk and sat in her ergonomic office chair, giving me that look that makes my skin crawl. Dean calls it her "bitch face" and that face usually means bad news.

  
     "Mr. Novak-"

  
     "Castiel"

  
     "Yes. Castiel. Anyhow, I need to talk to you about your activity schedule." She pulled a thick file with my name on it out of her desk drawer and dropped it in front of herself with a resounding thud that echoed in my brain. "I've been told by several staff members that you have been skipping certain activities and every time they have found you in the day room with the same patient. Would you care to tell me why you've been doing this, Castiel?" Instinctively, I drew my legs up into the chair and began to pick at the fabric of my offensively white scrub pants.

  
     "That's where my Sorry board is. And Dean is there, too. Besides, the activities you put me in are pointless. Arts and crafts won't make me feel better. My game makes me feel better. And my friend!" There I go shouting again. No apology came this time. She didn't deserve one. Samuel Winchester did.

  
     "Castiel, we've talked about the shouting. Do I need to call in a tech to take you to the Fish Bowl to calm down?" I shook my head. "Good. Now, I'm glad you brought up your...friend. Some of the doctors, myself included, have begun to think that maybe you and Dean are spending too much time together. To be frank, it's become disruptive. You have both been skipping activities to congregate in the dayroom and frankly, I believe that you fuel Dean's outbursts and I also believe that he fuels yours."

  
     "That's not true, Dr. Milton. Dean doesn't have outbursts. He just gets frustrated sometimes. And he even told me that playing with me makes him feel better so, not to be rude, but I'm making him better and you're wrong!" My hands flew up to my head and I felt my fingers weave through my hair and begin to tug. I couldn't stop it. My heart was racing and my mind was racing faster. The sharp pain in my scalp seemed to be the only thing keeping me from crashing but I knew it was wrong. The doctors say it isn't a healthy coping mechanism but it's drowning out the voice of Dr. Milton calling the orderlies in to sedate me.

  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     I don't believe I'll ever get used to this feeling of weightlessness and crushing weight all at the same time. Each moment that passes I feel simultaneously like I could float away or sink into the surface of the Earth. I'm grounded if only for the moment by the bite of the restraints on my wrists and ankles. They're "for my own safety" or at least that's what the brick wall of an orderly tells me every time they sedate me. As if they aren't harming me themselves, pricking my skin with needles and rubbing my skin raw with rough restraints. I suppose it doesn't matter to them as long as I'm not causing them any problems.

  
     I hear the metal door being heaved open. And though my head is to heavy to look at who may be entering, I know. It's always the same. It's Dr. Winchester with an orderly in tow to release me from my shackles and stick me in front of a dayroom window to stare out of catatonically till my motor functions come back to me. I can hear the doctor talking and feel the other man undoing my restraints but I'm tired, I'm too tired to move. I'd rather just crash into my own mind.

  
     I lost my consciousness until I found myself staring at a bee buzzing around a patch of wildflowers through the biggest window in the noisy dayroom. There were patients bustling about, all showing off their latest finger paintings or recounting stories of their schizophrenic adventures but I had never felt more alone and unnoticed. There I sat, dazed and confused and not a single soul stopped to even look. My mind began to wander again until I felt a weight on my shoulder. Slowly, I turned my head and saw Dean resting his chin on my shoulder, my mouth mere centimeters from his cheek.

  
     "What are we looking at, handsome?"


	3. Chick Flick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'd like to apologize for the long wait! I've been struggling with my physical and mental health and I couldn't find the spoons to sit down and write. It may take me a few chapters to get back into the right writing style but I promise I'm gonna try very hard to update regularly. Thanks for reading and ,as always, kudos and comments are my lifeline!!!

     Dean swiveled around the chair I was sitting catatonically in since I was released from the sedation room.

  
     "Listen, Cas..."

  
     "Yes, Dean."

  
     "I want to tell you something and I want you to just let me get it all out before you say anything." Dean rested his arms on the tops of his legs and bounced his feet. I liked the way he bounced his feet, always at the same pace. I dragged my eyes away from his restless feet and stared right into his eyes, patiently waiting. I don't usually look people in the eyes but there's something about Dean's that makes me never want to look away.

  
     "Go ahead," I finally say. He stops bouncing his feet and sits up straight.

  
     "I want you to eat with me tonight." Dean's eyes unlock from mine and start darting around the room. Mine do that sometimes.

  
     "Dean, we always eat together," I say, obvious confusion leaking through my voice. I see him raise his hands and a part of me instinctively tenses up but he just runs his fingers through his hair roughly.

  
     "No, no. I want you to eat with me...like...as a date?"

  
     Panic. That's the first thing I feel. I'm not dumb. I know what a date is and I know what dates entail. I've seen a lot of movies where a man takes a woman to dinner and they eat and laugh and touch. I never for even a moment thought to picture myself going on a date. Especially with someone as conventionally attractive as Dean because I was certain Dean was interested in women and I am obviously not a woman. This has to be a trick. He's tricking me like everyone else.

  
     "That's not very nice, Dean." His eyes shot up from the floor and he looked at me with an expression I couldn't identify if I wanted to.

  
     "Wait what? What are you talking about?"

  
     "Numerous people have asked me out on dates as a joke but I thought maybe you were a good enough friend to not do that to me." I felt tears being to well up in my eyes. Big surprise. I'm a crybaby.

  
     "No," Dean yelled, "I'm being serious. I've been talking to Dr. Singer about wanting to ask you for a while now. He even told me how to set everything up all chick-flick like cause I know how much you like when they play those kinds on movie night." Dean started to pick at the skin on his hand, a tick I'm fairly certain he picked up from me.

  
     "Oh, well in that case, I will eat with you tonight, Dean."

  
     A big smile spread across his face and almost instantly I could feel one spread across mine. When Dean is happy, I'm happy. I couldn't really tell you why. I've never known myself to really care about others' emotions, let alone allow them to affect mine. It's a mystery of this hospital, one of many actually. I try to tell people about all of the odd things I notice in here from day to day but every one thinks I'm crazy. I suppose in a psychiatric hospital it's safe to assume that every one you meet is a little bit crazy.

  
     "Meet me in the cafeteria at table five. Don't get a plate or anything. Just go sit down at our table." Dean rattled off instructions before powerwalking away from me, no doubt nervous from the sight of my gummy smile. I've always been told I smile with too much gum. I think Dean likes my smile. To no surprise, he was headed straight for Dr. Singer's office. He was in there a lot. That's where he talks about war. He calls it the Apocalypse. But maybe this time he isn't talking about the end of times. Maybe he's talking about me. I hope so.

  
     Once Dean closed Dr. Singer's door behind him, I rose from my chair and began to walk down the side hallway to go to my room. I realized that I was done being a person for the day and longed for the comfort of my cheap, low thread-count sheets and my lumpy pillow. Normally, when I walk, I stare at the floor and count the tiles as I step on them but something in the back of my head told me to look down the hallway and I will never forgive that part of my brain for making me do that. At the end of the hallway stood a man, but it wasn't a man at all. Its body was so human-like that it could pass if you only glanced at it but I stared. I stared and I stared and his face began to rot and decay and warp and its eyes were pitch black and my brain refused to believe what my eyes were seeing so I shut them. I shut my eyes and I sat on the floor and I rocked and rocked because what I just saw couldn't be real. So I sat and rocked until rec-room time was over and an orderly picked me up and carried me to my room.

  
     I didn't wake up until I heard the other patients shuffling past my room towards the cafeteria for dinner. But when I opened my eyes, they were going the wrong direction. The cafeteria is to the left of my door but everyone was lazily walking to the right. With a quick glance at the alarm clock bolted to my old, cheap nightstand, I realized that I had slept right through dinner and my mind began to race and found itself landing on one specific thought running around and around my brain.  
 "Dean!"


End file.
